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Simple Gifts: Thoughts from Childhood Thank you, President Swartzendruber, Chair Dula and the Board of Trustees, faculty, staff and the graduating class of 2011: “There is no frigate like a book to take us lands away,” wrote Emily Dickenson. And, clearly, we are launched on our voyage of discovery to the land of reading by the fast frigate of the children’s book. Very few of us skip directly ahead to the battleships of Tolstoy, Proust or Melville. Most of us spend a prolonged sojourn wandering among the fanciful creations of the Dr. Seusses, Beatrix Potters and Maurice Sendaks of this world. It may be that our most cherished beliefs and dearly held values are formed by this early embarkation on a nurturing sea of the imagination. The Good Ship Children’s Book has taken us all to many lands and climes, to places distant in both space and time. But it can also take us on a more intimate exploration of our own neighborhoods and backyards, our own homes and families or, even, our own thoughts and minds. It is worthy of note, in this exploration of the inner child, that some of the best known examples of children’s literature feature an extensive cast of talking animals. This is so obvious a fact that it is, at first, difficult to perceive its underlying oddness. In reality, with the exception of parrots and a few other birds, animals simply do not talk; and, while verbose beasts are the norm in children’s books, they are exceedingly scarce in books for adults. The question of why children’s books often depict talking animals and adult books usually do not, is too broad to explore here, but it does lead to the vitally important and intriguingly relevant subject of one particular type of talking animal—namely, talking bears! It’s my belief that as soon as my parents, Stan and Jan Berenstain, created their first bear- themed children’s book, fifty years ago, people started asking them, “Why bears?” And, since I became involved with creating the Berenstain Bears books about twenty years ago, I’ve been fielding the question, too. Bears, of course, are a traditional staple of children's books, going back to that fateful day of long ago when Goldilocks decided to engage in a little illegal entry at an inadequately secured home in the woods. Children's book bears have ranged from the large and lumbering to the cute and cuddly. Our bears fall somewhere in-between. They are big—at least as big as people—and burly—they definitely weigh in on the "fully-packed" side. But they are friendly and funny. They have no fangs (you may ask their dentist) and their claws have dwindled to little more than toenails. They walk on their hind legs, wear clothes, live in houses—albeit tree houses—and engage in a wide range of human activities. They drive cars, play soccer, eat pizza, go to school and watch too much TV. But, still, why bears? The fact is that bears are a natural stand-in for people. They are something like people but not too much like them. They have rounded heads with eyes toward the front, they sometimes stand on their hind legs and they manipulate things with hand-like paws. We often say of large burly people that they are "bear-like". But bears are definitely animals. They have none of that unsettling mixed identity of monkeys or apes. Bears are of their own distinct lineage. They are analogous to human beings without being too much like them. Children are fascinated by large, powerful animals like bears. But they are threatened by them, as well. The primary role of bears as semi-human children's book characters may be to help reassure children about their own position in the food chain. My family’s special contribution to the literary bear clan has come to be universally identified with are loosely called family values. American moms, pops and kids know and trust our characters as guides to the overwhelming task of attempting to become a sane, secure and well-adjusted family. We have received countless letters and comments from parents and their offspring who have found our books helpful in getting over those proverbial rough-spots in the bob sled run of family existence. It was, I hasten to add, never our intention to take on this role of do-it-yourself family counselors. We prefer to leave serious psychologizing to the duly designated, licensed and recognized professional authorities, like, Dr. Phil. But, now, we’re pretty much stuck with it. People are always telling us that they like our books because “they teach good lessons.” But I beg to quibble with this well-meant characterization. I think people actually like our books because “they teach lessons, good.” The ethical messages of our books are not very original. They tend to lean heavily on such standbys as the Golden Rule—scarcely an innovation. Their appeal comes, rather, from the way in which this familiar material is presented. We work very hard to make our books funny and visually engaging. We try to make our characters full-dimensional, and we try to tell good stories. Our books actually do have plots—not as convoluted as, say, Harry Potter—but, still, good for turning a few pages. The question, “Why bears?” leads, inevitably, to the question, “Why the Berenstain Bears?” My parents started out as magazine cartoonists for such family publications as the Saturday Evening Post, McCall’s and Good Housekeeping. But the transition from cartoons about children to books for children was a natural one for them. As parents, themselves, they were interested and critical consumers of children’s books. Their professional interest was aroused, as well, when many former cartoonists became prominent in the children’s book field during the early Sixties. Most prominent of all was Theodore Seuss Geisel (aka Dr. Seuss), also editor and publisher of the new Random House Beginner Books line, an outgrowth of Geisel’s groundbreaking title, The Cat in the Hat. Stan and Jan decided to try their hands at the creation of a children’s book and found the result good. When they submitted their story about a family of bears to Dr. Seuss, he agreed with them. “Ted” became their first children’s book editor as well as their chief exhorter, mentor, fan and, at times, slave-driver in their newly-chosen careers as children’s authors and illustrators. They created about twenty books with Geisel, and then went on to produce about two hundred more over the next forty-odd years. The character of their relationship with Ted was established at their first meeting with the great man. “I like your bears,” Ted began. “I think they’re fun. I like the idea of family. And…”he added, encouragingly, “I love your drawings. But I need to know more about them. Who are these bears? What does Papa do for a living? What kind of pipe tobacco does he smoke?” To my parents considerable discomfiture, Ted proceeded to subject their simple children’s story to a analysis worthy of his literary studies at Oxford in the 1920’s. In other words, he ripped it apart. They finished up their session with handshakes and Ted’s query, “How long do you think it’ll take for the next draft?” After a long, long series of drafts, sketches and layouts, the first Berenstain Bears book, The Big Honey Hunt, was published in the spring of 1962. It has been sometimes remarked that my parents’ marriage must have been extraordinarily close and strong to so successfully survive the stresses of both a professional as well as a personal partnership. This is true, especially when it is considered that, from the day of their wedding in 1946 to Stan’s death in 2005, they spent about 99.99% of their lives in the same room, together. At some points they were even working on the same piece of art together at the same time. They were occasionally asked whether they ever disagreed about their work; they always replied that, no, they didn’t disagree but that they sometimes “agreed, vigorously.” I have often thought that the principal reason for their ability to communicate to their audience so effectively on the subject of marriage and family was the intensity of their own commitment to the institution. It has also sometimes been remarked that the father figure in their books is of the bumbling, accident-prone, foot-in-the-mouth variety a la Homer Simpson or Ray Barone. Those critical of this characterization of American fatherhood have assumed that some subversive ideological impulse was behind it perhaps rooted in their origin in the turbulent ‘60s. But I can assure them that the image of Dad and Mom they created was purely autobiographical. My father and mother really were a lot like Papa and Mama Bear. My father was not quite so goofy and accident-prone as Papa and my mother not quite so cool, calm and collected as Mama but the resemblance was pretty close. People naturally assume that the close connection between my own family and the Berenstain Bear family extends to every detail and nuance. “Are you Brother Bear?” people ask me. “No,” I always answer, “ I have an older brother so I guess I must be Sister Bear.” Let me state for the record that none of us are now or ever have been bears, neither were any of us born in Bear Country.

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